


rose-clouded

by craftingdead



Category: The Crafting Dead
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bittersweet Ending, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, nick/vacktor shippers don't interact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 08:05:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17638994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craftingdead/pseuds/craftingdead
Summary: You’re nineteen and you’re a fucking adult, you can deal with your own problems. You can’t even tell the difference between you now and you at sixteen—that’s how fucking mature you are. Hurray.(This fic is not supposed to be taken as a way of fetishizing or romanticizing abusive relationships. Nick & Red's relationship is not healthy and should not be portrayed as "healthy" or ideal in any way, shape, or form. If you take this fic OR their relationship like that, know that I really, really, really don't like you.)





	rose-clouded

**Author's Note:**

> god, if i'm being real? this was harder than the first fic to write. you don't need to read direct registration to read this, but it is recommended. again, mind the triggers. this fic has explicit mentions and depictions of emotional abuse, and implications of sexual abuse. please do not trigger yourself. it also has mentions of potential self-harm, but not enough to warrant a tag, so watch out for that, as well as mild transphobia. i don't know if i put enough warnings on the last fic, so i added more to this
> 
> and, nick/vacktor shippers? this ain't shippy. don't try to make it or see it as so, you weirdos. ugh

It’s easy enough to brandish a butterfly knife at someone to get them to fuck off, but these guys are tougher; they are six feet tall and have a good and solid nine inches on you. Curse your poor five-three soul. But also curse their six feet tall souls since you not only have a butterfly knife but also several other knives, ranging from pockets to daggers and are not afraid to nick a bitch when they corner you in an alleyway. You’re sure they could take you. They know it. But then you scream and they panic and run off so like, who’s the winner now? Yes, it is the nineteen-year-old without a fear of death. Well, maybe a little fear of death. You have a several-month-old at home, you have to be afraid of death.

Well, whatever death you hypothetically may or may not be afraid of can wait, since you’re running several minutes late with a good thirty minutes you need to drive that you can probably cut down to twenty if you like, break a lot of traffic laws.

As you stroll out of the alleyway you can see them hovering just a few feet off to the side. One glare sends them scattering and you slip your knives back up your sleeves because oh boy there is a cop very, very near to your location. He’s sipping a thermos and eyeing the guys because one of them has a not-well-hidden gun bouncing up and down on his hip which is definitely illegal to carry around here. You smile at him as you walk by and the cop gives you a one-over that’s way too uncomfortable on your end and you kinda hope he doesn’t have kids.

Sometimes you wish you could walk ten feet out of your apartment without getting harassed. Sometimes you wish you could actually hold a steady apartment without having to move out of fear as well.

Almost on cue, your phone chimes with one message, then two, then three, finally ending piling up to eleven fucking messages.

“Baby, I miss you.” “I’m sorry, I really am, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” “It’s so lonely here. Please, just text me or call me back.” “Please, Doll, just come home to me.” The first time he sent those messages, you nearly caved. It was three days after you left and he probably just then realized that you hadn’t blocked him. They hollow out your stomach and fill every little crevice with guilt and longing. They are the wolf sleeping outside, bloodied fabric dripping from their teeth onto the welcome mat.

Then, “Why the fuck haven’t you texted me back? What did I do?” “Come on, stop playing around, just call me or something.” “Ugh, this isn’t funny, sweetheart, come the fuck home. It’s been months. You aren’t funny.” Sometimes they were sent hours after the first messages; sometimes they came seconds. It depended on the weather.

You could fucking predict when the third siege came on. Well, they did all come in one spur of texting but, when they didn’t, you could almost feel the dread. The smell before the storm, gasoline before a gas station was lit the fuck up.

“I’ll fucking tell all your friends what you did and where you went. Call me now.” “Look, I get you might be whoring out to some dude who isn’t as good as me, but that’s no excuse to be avoiding my messages for this fucking long.” “Seriously, who did you shack up with? There’s no way you could’ve been gone this way without finding someone. Don’t worry, I’m not mad about the whole ‘cheating’ thing, I’m more amazed anyone would want to deal with your ass right now.” “Babygirl, text me the fuck back right now or I’m coming to find you myself.”

Sometimes it went further than that, threatening to harm you or the people you loved. Sometimes he says more heinous things than just “Babygirl.” Sometimes he threatens to post the “pictures” he has of you online. That one almost gets you.

The first time you got those string of messages, it left you a sobbing mess on the hotel bathroom floor. It woke up your one (and a half!) month old. (At that moment, however, you less wanted to text him back than you wanted to call your dad and beg him to please please pick me up I can’t do this.)

“Hey, sweetheart!” a man calls to you from the sidelines. You barely spare him a glance, tilting your head to the side and back. “Yo, I know your friend! You know the one. Why don’t you come with us?”

The six-foot-man from before is leaning against a building and looking warily at you. You flash them a glint of one of your (many) knives and they go pale, backing off into some alleyway.

The day outside is hot and dry and you want to run so you can get to your destination and then _home_ quicker but that’d just make your nose bleed. God knows a bloody nose would be the breaking point between you staying on the run and you driving over eighteen hours back to his place. Straight, eighteen hours straight. He’d expect nothing less. The convenience store (that you picked because it seemed like there was less of a chance of you getting recognized there) isn’t that far away. You’re going to get the shit you need, pack up Jordan, and get the hell out of dodge. Ugh. This keeps happening. Screw him and his practically Mafia-like “group.”

“Oh hun I didn’t mean what I just said you know how I get sometimes.” “I wouldn't have said it if you had just texted me back baby you know this.” “I don’t know what I would do without you. I probably would’ve killed myself already if it weren’t for you.”

Your phone goes off again. You scowl and silence it, a migraine already pounding bloody murder between your temples. If there’s one thing that pisses you off to no end, it’s endlessly getting text messages. You swear the dinging noise plays in your worse nightmares.

“Looks like someone got a little too over-the-top there. Ha, you know what I’m like. Why do I have to explain myself? Text me back.” “It was funny before, making the whore jokes and everything but seriously. Text me.” “Man, the killing myself thing didn’t even work. Huh. And I thought you were supposed to be a good person.” “I feel like it would be more like you killing yourself instead of me, but that’s just personal opinion. Call me. I’m not joking around.”

You were a hundred and thirty-five steps away from your car (not counting the alleyway trip) and about to turn back (a hundred and forty is when you start getting paranoid) when you reach the store doors. They slide open effortlessly, and it’d just be a waste if you didn’t get what you need.

The girl at the front waves hello at you but you ignore her and go right to the back; not like you know where anything is around here, but the back’s always the best place to start. There are apple juices stacked next to orange and grape juices and a man observing them through clear glass and your palms start to sweat.

The man notices you with a start. “Oh, hey, kid,” he says, “you have any idea what’s in these? Don’t wanna be ingesting too many chemicals.”

“I…,” you say. In your pocket, your phone vibrates, one, two, eight times and the lights above suddenly seem too bright and hot. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know, I’m not around here much, uh…”

“Oh.” He looks disappointed. “Hmmph, just assumed you knew, from the B-line you made to get back here. Hey, kid, are you good? Looking kind of bad over there. Where are your parents? You look sick, I know that look, my daughter’s at home with the flu, it’s really nasty. She loves juice, that’s the thing, so I’m grabbin’ her some on my lunch break. Hey, real talk, do you need me to call someone?”

“I-I’m fine, I swear.” Your phone vibrates in your pocket one last time. Everything feels hot and dizzy. _Fuck, why here why in public why does this shit always happen to me—_ ”I, uh, need to be somewhere.”

You speed away from him almost too quickly. Around one of the store corners lie two bathrooms. You go into the appropriate one, barely get the door open, almost forget to shut the door, almost forget to _lock_ the door, then proceed to puke your guts out in a dirty convenience store bathroom. You haven’t been eating much recently. The bile burns your throat and you have to wrap an arm around your stomach to steady yourself while you flush the toilet, wipe your mouth, then clean it out with admittedly disgusting-tasting tap water.

When you get back out, the man is gone. You stash two bottles of apple juice under your arm, round the corner and grab two bags of chips, then nab three Hershey's chocolate bars as you make your way to the front. The nice girl looks at you quizzically but you can barely shove the things over because your hands are shaking too bad. You pay, shove the items in your bag, and get the _fuck_ out of that store. _Hundred and thirty-five, hundred and thirty-four, hundred and thirty-three, hundred and thirty-two…_

Your car was used and banged up and the a part of the backseat couldn’t even really be sat on because it was ripped to all hell but it served its use driving you to and from places and also providing an escape when it got too stressful outside and also being there for you as you drove across an entire state to get away from him.

The car was dusty and hot and made it hard to breathe and the moment you got in and shut the door, you reeled back and threw your butterfly knife as hard as you could into the backseat. It hit nothing, so you reached back, returned it, turned on the car, and sped out of the small parking lot you were in faster than the signs posted around said you were supposed to, blasting music. It was still dusty and hot and one sneeze could get your nose bleeding. You almost crashed your car when “Oasis” by Amanda Palmer came on shuffle.

 

//

 

You're curled up against the bathroom wall and moaning in pain and sorrow. For the past two hours, there you’ve stayed, a hand wrapped firmly across your stomach and also sometimes throwing up. The rational part of your brain is convinced you got a bad strain of the flu or food poisoning or God Hates Me, but WebMD is trying to convince you of an ulcer or pregnancy or cancer or something of the similar.

After two hours, the door finally creaks open, and he peers down at you, an unamused frown planted on his face. You look up to meet him and squint against the bright light of the hallway. Half of the bulbs in this bathroom are out. It’s dim.

“What the hell are you doing,” he says, and shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t crouch down next to you, instead opting to lean against the counter and look down on you.

You look up at him and only manage to croak out “Fucking—cramps” before another wave of pain hits you and you bite your lip and dig your arm into your lower stomach even harder.

“You’re acting like a child,” he responds.

“I’m in _pain_.”

“Sure, you’re dying,” he says and alright, that is pretty shitty. But, he can be a douche sometimes. It’s damn near his brand. “I don’t think it’s ‘cramps.’ You’ve probably picked up a flu bug from somewhere. Why are you even in here?”

You flinch (is it his words or the pain?????). “I was gonna take a shower. Ended up throwing up.” Didn’t warm water help soothe pain or whatever? You swore you heard that somewhere. Whatever plans you had before were all thrown out the window with whatever sickness this was and your seventy-five percent charged phone that could survive a week on ten percent if you tried like, really really hard. He said something. You missed it.

The sudden sound of running water made your head hurt, and when you looked over, you saw him running a bath, the temperature set much higher than necessary. He didn’t change it. The warm water thing must’ve been from him, not… from anything you said. Or saw before.

He wraps an arm around your back and then thighs (ew) then dropped you into the tub hard enough for a splash to hit his jeans and make him hiss. It was, indeed, hot as fuck but you could care less. You did yell a few profanities though. And also realized you were still fully clothed and officially soaked through.

“There you go,” he says, sarcastically. The bath was less to make you feel better and more to make fun of you for being “sick,” you realize. Then feel pretty shitty because, wow! You really thought your actual real-life boyfriend was in a better mood today. Then you felt bad for thinking that because he tries his best and has a very tough job (as far as you know) and then comes home to deal with you and your immature antics.

“I’m still wearing clothes,” you mutter. Or murmur. It’s not soft enough to be a murmur, not harsh enough to be a mutter, not quiet enough to be a whisper. It’s something. “But, thank you.”

“Oh, we can deal with that,” he says all too eagerly. He’s kneeling down by you and has one hand on your thigh (eww) and the other with a fistful of your shirt.

It, as it should, makes you extremely uncomfortable. You have rules for stuff like this! He’s not allowed to get too close—it makes you uncomfortable. You’ve had this talk many times. He never seems to listen! Hmph. (There was this one bad time where he’d been smoking and tasted really bad but you were tired and dizzy and it was dark out and no one was around so you couldn’t really stop him.)

You softly tell him no and push his hand away. Then you firmly tell him no and shove his arm away. Then you tell him to “Get out” and apparently he chalks it up to you feeling like shit and not being a prude and doesn’t shut the door as hard as he usually ends up. He still slams it hard enough to make your head hurt though.

At times like this you wish you had your sister you wish you had Shelby because she’d drag you out of that bathroom and to your room then drag a trash-can over to you in case you throw up again and turn off the lights and get you medicine then climb into bed with you and get sick two days later because you’re both stupid enough to. Or she wouldn’t get sick and would help you through it. Or she’d get sick and you’d throw half the blankets from your bed onto hers. Even if it’s winter. Even if you shivered all throughout the night.

It takes you thirty minutes to finally get undressed. By then the water has started to cool down and your fingers are pruney. You pull the hem of your shirt over your head and try to shake the unnatural feeling of being watched from your paranoid mind.

 

//

 

“Nick!” Rose clasps her hands together and smiles. “I was wondering when you were going to get back.”

You smile and leave your bag on the table because no matter how shitty your day has been there’s no way you could be mean to Rose. She already does so much for you, taking care of Jordan when you have to run errands (and are too scared to bring him out with you because fuck with if he finds you) and need short breaks.

“Hiya, Rosa,” you say and she swoops down with Jordan in her arms, passes him over, and hugs you tightly. She’s five-seven and constantly plaits her hair into the “Dead Anime Mom Braid” and might just be the nicest person you’ve ever met. She loves it when you call her Rosa. (It's inspired by her full name, "Rosabelle," but everyone usually calls her Rose. You don't.)

When she pulls away you’re left with only Jordan in your arms. Amber and blue eyes blink up at you, a head full with tufts of dark head sluggish on your shoulder. One of his fists has a hold of your collar and then he lets his eyes drop and curls in closer to you, making soft noises. You have to physically restrain yourself from making childish cooing noises at him.

“Hun, this can’t have been all you needed.” You look up and Rose is going through your bag, face set in a thin line.

“Uh, yeah,” you lie. “I was planning on getting takeout tonight.”

She hmphs and pulls her coat from one of the chairs. “Well,” she says, pulling it on, “I should get going. It’s getting late out. My husband is waiting for me at home; he’s cooking dinner tonight. Jordan was an absolute doll tonight.”—the word makes you wince—”Will I be coming over next Friday as well?” she asks, grabbing her own bag from the table as well.

“It’s your choice whether or not, uh, w-whether or not you wanna come, as always. I’m always sorry if you have any trouble,” you blurt out.

“Now, now.” She gives you a sad smile. “Don’t try apologizing to me, young man, I’m always willing to help.”

“I’m sorry, really. If I’m ever asking too much of you, you can always say. I’m sorry.” You flinch when you realize how many times you said: “I’m sorry.” What if it pisses her off? She did just say to stop apologizing to her. Shit…

She hugs you again and brushes over the curls on Jordan’s head. “What did I just say?” As you’re waving bye to her, she turns to you and says, “Try to go to sleep early tonight. You look like you need it.” You feel obligated to agree, so you do, and she smiles and then you feel guilty for technically-lying.

After she’s gone, you lock the door then nudge over one of the table chairs and put it underneath the door. Better to be safe than sorry. God, it really was late. Your clock read eight PM. You forgot how long it takes to drive back to the apartment… fuck, you hope Rose’s husband wasn’t mad at her for being gone too long. He would always get mad at you if you were out too—you knock back that thought with apple juice and do not, in fact, order takeout. The nausea was too bad. You wouldn’t be able to keep anything down.

Maybe… maybe Rose was right when she said to go to sleep early. You could barely keep your eyes open and the bags underneath were noticeable enough to make her call them out (multiple times!).

Ugh. You don’t think she can stop herself from babying you. It makes you feel childish and young which—for one, is fucking uncomfortable. It’s weird getting treated like a child after years of being told how mature you are, how old you act for your age. You can’t help but feel bitter towards her for acting like you’re twelve. You aren’t young and haven’t been for a long time.

You’re nineteen and you’re a fucking adult, you can deal with your own problems. You can’t even tell the difference between you now and you at sixteen—that’s how fucking mature you are. Hurray.

Coco’s laying on the bed when you get to your room. A Maine Coon breed with kittens on the way—you adopted her after her previous owners got mad at that she was pregnant. You flipped them off when you took her in and they laughed at you. She made herself at home with you real quick. Was even calm when you had to move locations.

Jordan curls up on the bed immediately when you put him there and you wonder how long he’s been asleep. That’ll be a bitch to deal with if he wakes up in the middle of the night and decides to inform you of how hungry he is by screaming at the top of his lungs.

It’s a hot night and he’s in light clothes but you are not, so you’re forced to strip down to a t-shirt and boxers (while still being pretty fucking hot—when was the A/C in this place gonna get fixed?). You almost leave on your sweater for comfort, before realizing that you’d wake up with heatstroke if you attempted to do that, so you abandon it on the floor.

(There are phantom hands on your hips and you decide to pull on an extra pair of shorts, shaking, ignoring the heat. Your heart is pounding and your breath is hitching and you swear you can smell sex and blood in the air.)

You fall asleep watching YouTube on your phone with a baby to one side of you and a cat to the other.

 

//

 

You are at a party with some friends and are handed a cold drink in front of a warm fire and the cold feels good on your throat. It has a sharp and bitter taste that you can’t place but you ignore it since you are at a party with some friends and are kind of dizzy. It’s a dark night and the fire’s bright and you can’t tell the difference between laughing talking and yelling so you take another sip of your drink and get dizzier.

The fire is climbing higher than you thought it could-would and you still can’t tell the difference between laughing and yelling so you take another sip and watch the fire blot out the sky and when it gets too hot you shut your eyes and when you open them you’re in a dimly lit room and huh, that must’ve been a dream.

It can’t be a dream because you weren’t asleep and you’re standing upright and there are teeth against your neck and nails digging into your lower stomach and you don’t know how this happened because a different set of nails rakes up underneath your shirt and leaves deep scratches along your side and then it’s further up your shirt and you don’t like this please stoppleasegetoffofme—

Something shoves you from the front and now there’s no one behind you so you fall onto hardwood ground and something different is digging into your stomach but doesn’t bleed and he smiles with sharp teeth and the dream should’ve been longer because nothing that short should make you wake up screaming.

You wake up screaming.

Coco rips sheets as she springs off the bed and it feels like ripped clothes against your chest but instead, it’s not and instead, you stumble into bed and into the bathroom and pray you didn’t wake Jordan up with your screaming.

The water is hot when you turn it on and burns and that’s never happened before so your pissed and wait for it to get cold to splash it back onto your face. “Fucking Rosa,” you slur since she was the one who told you to sleep and you should’ve listened to the gut instinct that was yelling at you not to since you were already having such a shit day but instead you listened to the one sort of authority figure in your life like some dumb fucking bitch.

You’re thin and weary and if your shirt rode up too much one could see your ribs. You test it and poke at them and yep, you can count one-too-many of them. God, screw your high waist—it looks even more prominent like this. He would probably like seeing you like this—weak, shaking and thin. You were never stronger than him. You’re pretty sure he got off on power dynamics. Your hair is starting to grow out again, you should cut it.

When you storm back into your room, shaking like a willow, Jordan is still asleep and Coco is hissing in a corner but you ignore her and instead rip a sheet off the bed, shove your laptop under your arm, and balance Jordan on your hip the best you can and storm out to your living room. It’s a “Netflix While Ignoring Traumatic Memories” kind of night.

In the morning, you were gathering all the shit you needed and getting the hell out of dodge. The owner of the apartment would fucking love that. He already hated you enough as it was. Besides, you just paid rent, he was getting money for an apartment you left two days after.

Jordan wakes up as your throwing the sheet over your couch and watches you, blinking and wide-eyed. He falls asleep halfway through the second movie and you can’t seem to stop yourself from watching old Disney films. They drive away your nausea.

Your apartment is big. Bigger than you would’ve thought it could be the first day you walked in. Tall ceilings and two rooms—one for you, one for all the shit you didn’t unpack and refused to. Which is a whole two boxes. You didn’t bother grabbing much the day you left him. It was the first steady place you had in months and it felt so good to live there and you thought you could get away from the past. It didn’t have the enclosed spaces his house held, it didn’t have the winding staircase, it didn’t have the wide-open rooms with short ceilings that made you feel trapped and caged and it sure as hell didn’t have the room from your nightmares—the one that you always woke up sore and in-tears because you couldn’t tell the difference between healthy and unhealthy shows of “love.” It didn’t smell faintly of alcohol and something dirtier that always seemed to disappear when others were over and reappear when it was just you, you, you stuck in that house with him and no one to protect you and no one to tell you what was right and what was wrong.

You skip back to the _Hercule’s_ fighting montage again and again. You don’t wanna see him fall in love. You don’t wanna see him weak. It makes your spine crawl and skin itch and the blanket isn’t warm enough and the night is freezing.

 

//

 

The next morning, you roll up to Rose’s house with your car packed full and Jordan cooing in the backseat. The A/C blasts up high so he won’t overheat and he giggles when you sing along, offkey, to the songs you play. “Oasis” comes on again and you don’t crash your car this time but you yell in shock and he gets upset that you dare skip a song. You can’t stop shaking. He gives up being upset after a while.

Rose is outside, mowing the lawn, and looks surprised to see you here. She meets you at the sidewalk as you leave the car, the windows rolled down and one of the doors still open so Jordan won’t be stuck in the heat.

“What’s going on?” she asks. “Do you need me to help out?”

“No…” You suck in a deep breath. “Rosa I—I’m leaving, I’m sorry, I’m getting out of town today I’m sorry, I’m sorry to leave you like this without any other prior word I’m sorry—”

“You’re… leaving?” It takes a little while to register with her, but when it does, it’s like a lightbulb goes off in her mind. “Oh. You’re leaving. Well, I honestly expected you to stick around longer, but we all can’t get what we want. Hold on, I’ll be right back, I need to get something!” She went off sprinting back to her house and dirt kicked up onto her long skirt and first, you were confused than guilty, both for leaving and for making her dirty her skirt. It was a beautiful skirt.

You expected her to be mad. Confused, also. She was so close to you and Jordan, she thought you told her _everything,_ it would feel like a cutting betrayal. But instead she was getting something from her house and hadn’t yelled at you once.

She comes back out with her skirt still dirty but this time, crossing the yard, she hikes it up. Under her arm, she carries a box that looks like it should be much too large for someone of her size to carry—and that’s to say, she’s five-seven, so it is a very large box. Her hair is loose today and she looks less like she’s going to die a horrible plaited death because of you. “I was planning on giving these to you earlier,” she calls, “but I never found the time. But I believe now would be good!”

She huffs and puffs and drops the box in front of you. “I remembered how you said you seemed to move around a lot, so I ended up digging out some old stuff for you. I also added a few other things,” she says, more excited than someone should be, with the nature of the conversation. “Oh, I hope you like it.”

Much due to her urging, you crouch down and flip open the box and… and it’s filled with stuff. A big backpack (which you actually needed, but never found the time to get holy shit), baby clothes and toys and books, what the fuck, blankets, and water bottles and food and it looks like a care package for someone on the run.

Well, you _are_ on the run, and this is all the shit you’ve needed.

“It’s not much, but it should last you about a week until you can find either a suitable place or a suitable income,” Rose says. “My brother used to drive around the country and always brought these things with him, seeing as he somehow always found himself short on cash. And… I dropped in some things for Jordan as well. He taught me how to fit all of it easily inside a car, and I can show you too if you want.”

You don’t. You abandoned everything back at the apartment because you were too afraid it could be traced back to you. It’s what you usually do, though, at old places you just threw it to some garbage dump or donated it to GoodWill. You were always empty-handed, coming into a new town to stay. You never bought anything. You were always too scared to stay…

“I get that you might have things on you, and you don’t actually need this, but your explanation reminded me of my brother and, well, I thought you could use it—”

Rose can’t finish her sentence because you throw your arms around her and hug her tight.

“Oh,” she says, softly, and hugs you back. You’re too busy trying to blink away tears to notice her rubbing circles on your back, but they make you feel better nonetheless. When you pull away, she smiles and says, “Alright, now let’s get that stuff into the car. Don’t want the hubby looking at me weird. I practically had to drag that box downstairs.”

Much to your delight, she shows you how all of it can be stored in the one big backpack and didn’t need to be spread throughout your trunk. Your pop it open, she stores everything into the bag, takes it all out, then does it again slowly, showing you every little part in the equation.

“Hey,” she starts as you try to wrestle books into the same little space for the fifth time. “Hmm, well, I was just wondering, but is there anyone who could help you? I feel bad just leaving you to deal with all of… this on your own.”

“I don’t know,” you get out through your gritted teeth, on your sixth attempt. You don’t know how she made it look so easy.

Rose purses her lips. “Well, can you think of anyone? There has to be someone you know of. Or knew of.”

Your thoughts immediately go to Shelby and you fail for the sixth time imagining her face. You… you left without a word to anyone, she probably fucking hates you now. Sky too. The rest of your friends probably wouldn’t be that friendly, either. You wouldn’t dare think about your parents, he knows them too well, and there’s no way in hell you’re ever going to talk to Cory again. Your thoughts turn to Ghetto and you catch your lip underneath your teeth and chew, thinking.

“Oh, so there _is_ someone!” She gasps and you hate that she could immediately tell that from your expression. (If she, can, who else could? You banish that thought from your mind and worth on your seventh fucking attempt.)

“Yeah, I suppose so,” you admit and hand over the books to her so she can show you how to do it properly. It takes her five seconds. You’re furious.

She tosses the books to the side and then grabs two blankets and does some weird folding trick to make them half their size and then passes it over to you. You weren’t paying attention, zoning out from the heat. Jordan had been taken out and was now curiously watching you two work from the sidewalk. Something this simple shouldn’t take so fucking long, and you were starting to feel like an idiot. Rose corrects one of your motions and then leans back, hand grazing her chin, in thought.

“...What’s their name?” she asks, after a while.

That takes you longer to answer than it should. “Jesper. Jesper Reid,” you say since she didn’t know his nickname and his nickname was for close friends and strangers only and he didn’t even know this woman so she wasn’t even a stranger she was a stranger-stranger. You had those rules ingrained into your head, seeing as Ghetto never shut up about them. He didn’t even like his nickname. He kept it because of a bet with his uncle, then just forgot to tell people his actual name.

“That’s a wonderful name,” she says and it doesn’t seem like she’s joking so you continue on.

“He was my best friend throughout high school. And middle school. And a pretty long time before that, too. He’s the—he’s really the only one who I’ve been in contact with more recently. Or, not over a year ago. Honestly, out of everyone I knew before… he’s probably the person I miss the most.” After you start talking it’s hard to stop, and Rose listens to everything you say. She listens to you ramble on about the trouble you got into high school, how once you stood on a table and yelled so you would get detention after he’d unfairly gotten it, how you were the only one allowed to call him by his name for a while, how… how he helped you through some “tough” times. You didn’t name specifics, but she nodded along.

 _I think I would’ve killed myself long ago if it weren’t for him,_ you want to say but don’t. Not like, in an unhealthy way. Like “I can’t live without you” way. More like… he really did help you through some tough times, whether or not he knows it. He probably doesn’t. You’ll probably never tell him. You wouldn’t wanna put that pressure on him.

“He sounds like a very important person to you,” she says after you stop talking. She pauses, then adds, “Why haven’t you contacted him? If he’s that important, shouldn’t you be in contact? When was the last time you talked with him?”

“It’s complicated,” you say and pretend to not hear the last part. She’d get upset if you admitted it had been months.

“It doesn’t sound complicated. It sounds like you’re too afraid to talk to him because you don’t want him to be upset or hate you for running away,” she argues and damn, that felt like a shot through the heart. Thanks, Rose!

“I’m sorry, it’s complicated,” you respond and for a long time, the two of you are silent.

She finishes teaching you how to store things, and you realize you did it less because you wanted to know, and more because you didn’t want to leave. Then she waves goodbye to Jordan as you get him back into the backseat, scratches Coco’s neck, and gives you a very, very long hug outside of your car.

“I’ll miss you, you know that?” she says and pats your cheek. “If you’re ever in town, don’t feel embarrassed to come find me. Just ask for ‘Old’ Miss Rose, someone will know where I am. Or ask for my husband. Everyone knows us.”

As you’re pumping up the A/C and turning the ignition, she taps on your window and when you roll it down, she says, “Please, one last thing? Try contacting the man you mentioned—Jesper, even if it’s a month or a year from now. Just find some way to talk to him. It sounds like he cared for you very much.”

“I’ll try my best,” you say, and you legitimately mean it. “And, Rosa?” you add before she turns away. “I never told you this, but, my full name is Nick Lynx. You already know my first name but uh, I thought you might like to know my last, in case you ever wanted to find me again. Or something. Sorry.”

She smiles and nods and steps away.

As you drive out of town, you can’t help but feel bad as you pass all the familiar stores and houses you’ve grown to known the past three weeks you’ve been here. It’s barely been any time at all, but it feels like a lifetime, and Rose always acted like she’d known you your whole life, and it felt good. It felt familiar. But that didn’t stop you from leaving while going five over the speed limit and a butterfly knife stashed up your sleeve since you can’t seem to stop yourself from running. But you are young, and Ghetto’s number is still in your phone, and you think you’re gonna call him one of these days. Even if the call ends with you breaking down sobbing. Your stomach is hurting again. 

Your phone dings once, twice, six times and your thrust back into reality. You take a deep breath, silence your phone, slip the knife out onto your thigh and ignore the thin, light lines on your wrist. Your car smells too much like alcohol and something dirtier. Jordan is asleep in the back. When “Oasis” by Amanda Palmer comes on, you don’t skip it.

 

//

 

It’s a dark night and you’re dizzy and stumbling down the street and you don’t know where you’re going. The few lights you do see are giving you a pounding migraine and they twist into shapes of snarls and grins and you can’t remember where you are or where you left. All you can remember is that Ghetto went somewhere and left you alone and now someone is dragging you along in the pouring rain and your hair is dripping and you’re pretty sure there’s a knife against your side.

“Damn, those guys really are idiots, huh?” he laughs and you want to snarl out a “Fuck you” but if you talk you’re afraid you’re gonna throw up and he’s gonna get mad and jab you a little too hard in the side.

You don’t know where he’s taking you. You do, however, recognize his voice and it sounds hoarser than usual, sandpaper grinding against wood, and it hurts your ears as much as the bright lights hurt your eyes.

“I don’t know whether to blame them for being ignorant, or you for being a fucking idiot,” he continues. “I’m pretty sure I saw one of them passed out on a couch. Wasn’t the best idea when they had someone like you left all alone. It was almost too easy!” He giggles and you don’t know what he means by “too easy” but you think you’ve been drugged in some way and you don’t know what he’s going to do with you. Fuck, you’re gonna die tonight, aren’t you? No other coherent thoughts can get through and fear circles your ribs and throat and you squeak and he presses the knife harder against your side.

“What do you want from me?” you get out. It’s pathetic and desperate and you think he likes it because he laughs loud and loops an arm around your waist.

He’s talking again but you can’t make it all out because oh wow your vision is starting to get foggy. You make out something like “revenge” and “fun” and “why not?” and you’re gonna die you’re actually gonna fucking die tonight. You’re not even nineteen yet and you’re gonna die in an alley because some fuck drugged you after harassing you for months.

You can’t handle this. “Fuck you,” you say, finally getting it out from behind your teeth. He tilts his head back and laughs and you’re stumbling up a driveway now, you think.

“Is that an invitation?” he teases and a door clicks open and you stumble into the side of a couch after he shoves you there and the room is still dark and you can’t see shit but his knife is back why the fuck is he threatening you with a knife why is he such a freak—

He’s the cruelest man you know and he makes you bleed red blood. You want to call for someone you want to call for Ghetto but your phone fell out a few feet back and you can’t reach it you can’t even see it but you heard it loud and clear. He’s a dick and an asshole and a douche who keeps Rohypnol in his cupboard and threatens people he hates and then drugs them too and spends too much time looking you up and down because you keep catching him fucking doing it what kind of creep does shit like that? You’re going to fucking kill him the next morning. He’s a monster with sharp teeth and he wants to rip every last petal of your youth off the body you call a rose.


End file.
